


Tired of Pretending

by coconutcluster



Series: Roman is Repressed and a Mess [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: <3, but the wording is similar, its not selfharm, just be safe guys, platonic or romantic prinxiety, sequel!!!, so if you're really sensitive to self harm be careful, theres some talk of words across his arms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 23:23:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15011654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: Virgil confronts Roman about the words on his arms, and why he's left it a secret for so long.Sequel to "Locked Out (Well, In)".





	Tired of Pretending

  “ _ ROMAN’S HOME _ !”

  Patton’s excited shouts carried through the house like an intercom, bouncing around the rooms like the side himself, and his footsteps weren’t much quieter; Virgil could hear them from his room, even through the thick wood of his door, and the fatherly side didn’t seem very intent on lowering the volume anytime soon. 

  Thuds approached Virgil’s part of the hallway in a flurry of movement just as a knock resounded through his room. 

  “Virgil!” Patton called through, and, with the creaking right outside, Virgil could practically see him bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Ro is back!”

  “I heard you, Pat,” the anxious side groaned, his voice muffled by his pillow. “I’m comin’, just give me a minute.” 

  “Okay!” The noises stopped and started again. “But hurry up!”

  Patton’s footsteps faded away through the hall, down the stairs and into the commons as Virgil peeled his face from his pillowcase to glance at the clock; it was only noon - Roman’s quest must have been easier than they expected.

  He groaned again and fell back into his pillow.  _ Why can’t I just stay in bed until one?  _ he thought bitterly,  _ Or two? Or for the rest of time? That’d be nice- _

  It was only when he recognized the sounds of the creative side’s dramatic greetings that he pulled himself from the warm promise of more sleep, dragging his feet instead to the door and into the hallway before he could coax himself back to the bed. Roman’s voice floated up to his ears:

  “And then I simply convinced the chimera back to its cave; they’re really not as vicious as stories make them out to be- Virgil!”  __

__ He glanced down from his spot at the top of the stairs; all three other Sides were lounging in  the Commons (though lounging was a generous term - Logan was sitting prim on the sofa, yes, but Patton was bouncing on his toes so hard that the mugs on the coffee table shuddered, and Roman-) 

  Roman was beaming up at him from his spot at the door, his arms wide in greeting. “Good morning!” he cheered, his eyes sparkling. “I thought you might not make it down here!”

   “And miss my favorite pain in the neck? Never,” Virgil deadpanned, raising an eyebrow as the creative side cocked his head to the side, a smile still hinting at his face. 

__ __ “Virgil, your sentence is highly contradictory,” Logan said; he adjusted his glasses, frowning up the stairs. “You are aware of the implications of the word ‘favorite’, right-”

   “Chill, Logan, it was sarcasm.”

  “Ah.” Logan pulled out an index card and scribbled furiously across the blank face.

   Roman watched, his expression draped in amusement before he took a deep breath. “Well, brief as it was, my quest has left me quite drained,” he sighed, patting the hilt of his sword fondly, giving a dramatic yawn as Logan raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow; Patton’s face fell.

  “Oh, but you…” he trailed off, glancing at the stairs as if they’d betrayed him. “You just got back...”

  “I’ll only rest for a short time, Padre,” Roman assured him, slinging an arm around the fatherly side’s shoulders - Virgil watched as Roman winced when his arm made contact with Patton’s cardigan. 

  Ah.

  “Okay,” Patton relented, seemingly oblivious to the prince’s subtle, uncomfortable shifting at his side as he brightened. “We’re still doing movie night tonight, though, right?”

  “Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Roman offered a shining smile, which seemed to be enough for Patton. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Sleep tight, kiddo!” Patton called as Roman made his way to the stairs; the prince nudged past Virgil with a brief, flickering smile, more of a formality than a greeting. 

  Virgil waited, listening to the footsteps fade behind him before he gave a two-fingered salute to the pair looking at him from the Commons. “Well, that was fun, but I have sleep to catch up on.”

  “Did you get some rest last night?” he heard Patton call after him, voice laced with concern.

  “Yeah,” he lied. Patton was quiet, so Virgil leaned over the railing and gave the fatherly side a mischievous wink. “Don’t worry, Pat, I’ll be back down for lunch.” Patton grinned.  

  Virgil made his way down the hall, careful to lighten his footsteps as he passed his own door, bypassing the dark wood for the bedroom further back and across the hall. He approached the shining cherry door and knocked lightly before pushing through.

  Roman was on his bed, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he examined the fading black marks across his skin; his head snapped up as the anxious side shuffled in, and he dropped the sleeves back over his forearms with a start.

  “Virgil,” he coughed, his voice heavy with forced cheeriness. “What are you doing?” Virgil didn’t answer, and the creative side stood from the bed, busying himself with putting away supplies from his quest, carefully avoiding Virgil’s eyes. Virgil could sense the anxiety bubbling in Roman’s chest, draping the room in a thick, heavy film of unease.

  “How are your arms?” Virgil asked quietly, his eyes trained on the floor as Roman set his sword against the wall. He heard the sigh across the room; it was a sore spot - Roman had made that clear - but Virgil was more than hesitant to let the topic drop. 

  “Same as always,” Roman huffed, pulling at the edges of his sleeves. 

  “Have you told Pat and Logan yet?”

  The prince scoffed. “What is there to tell?”

  “...The fact that you have hate inked into your skin. That’s what there is to tell.” 

  “I told you,” Roman said, crossing his arms, careful to press the inside parts - the parts covered in the black words, the parts that Virgil couldn’t erase from the back of his mind - to his chest. “They’re criticisms. They’re supposed to be  _ helpful _ , Virge.”

  “I wouldn’t say someone calling Thomas ‘worthless’ is very helpful.” Virgil watched as Roman sank into his desk chair and examined the gold trim on his sleeves with a cloudy gaze; the anxious side raised an eyebrow, huffing a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Did you ever think that talking about it might make it better?”

  “No.” 

  “No what? No, you’ve never thought about it?” Roman didn’t meet his gaze. “Or no, you won’t tell the others about it?”

  Roman didn’t speak for a minute, just shifted in his seat, a thoughtful frown printed across his face. “I won’t tell them,” he finally muttered. “If you all were meant to know about it, you’d have it, too.”

  Virgil practically heard the record scratch in his head. “Are you kidding me?” Roman still didn’t look up, and Virgil had to resist the urge to cross the room and literally shake sense into him. “Roman, this is exactly the kind of thing you shouldn’t keep to yourself! You said ego boosters made it better, but has it ever occurred to you that communication could do the same thing? Talking about your issues? I would  _ know _ .”

  “This isn’t the same,” Roman insisted. “You have thoughts, Virge, and they don’t belong there because they’re not true! Yours are anxiety, plain and simple-”

  “There’s nothing simple about it,” Virgil snapped without thinking, and Roman reeled back.

  “I didn’t-” Roman stopped and stared at his lap, eyes tracing the seams in his pants. “I know it’s not. I’m sorry, Virgil, I didn’t think about that before I-” He cut himself off, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s  _ not  _ the same, alright? You don’t-”

  He didn’t finish. “I don’t what?” Virgil prompted, though he suspected he already knew the answer. 

  “You don’t deserve them.”

  “And you do?” Virgil strained to keep his voice even, to keep it calm - he knew hostility wouldn’t make anything better, but he was already close to snapping again. “Roman, you have to see the hypocrisy in this- my thoughts are ‘untrue’, but your arm has the exact same things  _ inked on _ and suddenly they’re an accurate basis of self-worth? You realize they’re about Thomas, right? Do you believe all that about him?”

 “But they’re not really about him,” Roman mumbled, so quietly Virgil almost missed it. 

  He frowned and blinked at the fanciful side. “What?”

  “I’m the one who generates ideas for videos and production. What they say...” Roman drifted off slightly, glancing at his arm. “They’re about the videos, and that makes them about my work, about  _ me _ . Everything they criticize is a comment on my contribution to Thomas’s life, and it would be stupid of me to act like they’re not exactly that, okay? It’s my job to make Thomas better in his art, and that’s that.”

  “Roman-”

  “No, don’t  _ Roman  _ me,” he snapped, standing from his chair with such force it slammed into the desk, his voice so suddenly full of venom - venom that hadn’t been directed at Virgil in quite some time - that the anxious side flinched, his grip on the bed frame tightening to white knuckles. Roman didn’t seem to notice. “Why can’t we just drop this? It’s a  _ part  _ of me, okay? I’ve accepted it, so why can’t you? Just move on and forget about it, Virgil,  _ please _ !”

  “No.” Virgil’s voice was firmer than he thought it ever could be, and Roman took a step back, his eyes wide. “I won’t drop it because it’s not  _ fair _ ; you shouldn’t deal with this alone, and it’s stupid of you to think you can. I don’t care if the Scape decided you get all the hate - and that’s what it is, and I know you know that, deep down - you have to share the burden, or you’ll break underneath it, Roman. You know that. You’re doing that now, even if it’s slowly. I’m not dropping anything until you realize that.”

  Roman froze, staring at Virgil with eyes that didn’t seem to focus fully on him, and he sank limply into his chair. The room went eerily silent, a heavy hush; Virgil could almost hear Patton and Logan talking downstairs. 

  “Roman,” he said after another minute and a half of silence - Roman seemed deep in thought, but his eyes were almost glazed over. “Roman, please say something.”

  “I don’t know.” The prince’s voice came out more of a warble than coherent words. “I don’t- you…” 

  He blinked suddenly, quickly, but tears were already trailing down his face, and he seemed to collapse in on himself, his posture wilting like a lifeless flower. “I’m  _ tired _ , Virge,” he whispered, his shoulders hunched and quivering. “I’m just… really, really tired.” The lights around the room flickered violently, and Roman flinched, sinking lower in his chair as his skin drained of its tan color.

  Virgil watched helplessly as the image of the brave, dashing prince that Roman had pushed so desperately to maintain crumbled in front of his eyes within a few seconds; he knew, on some level, that of  _ course  _ the fanciful side wasn’t all the dramatics he constantly flaunted, but seeing the facade crack with so much force at once made his stomach twist in a way he couldn’t possibly describe. He sat on the bed, frozen.

  “Tired of what?” he finally managed.

  “This,” Roman choked, gesturing to himself. “The stupid uniform, the stupid dramatic entrances, the stupid ideas, stupid me,  _ stupid words- _ ” He yanked his sleeve up and stared at the black markings, his eyes glassy; Virgil couldn’t read much from his spot on the bed, but he could guess which word appeared most. 

  “You’re not stupid, Ro-,” he started, but Roman cut him off.

  “I am,” he insisted; he swallowed and swiped viciously at his face, meeting Virgil’s eyes with ardent desperation. “I am, because you’re  _ right _ \- they stopped appearing for a week, Virgil, right after we talked in the Imagination, right after you noticed them; they didn’t disappear, but nothing else showed up for a full week. You’re right,” he hiccupped, a shudder running down his spine, and he hung his head. “But I can’t  _ do  _ that to you all. I can’t push it onto you.” 

  “You wouldn’t be doing anything to us, Ro,” Virgil said, but Roman didn’t look up. The anxious side finally stood and strode to the desk, kneeling in front of him, his hands on the prince’s- no, on  _ Roman _ ’s shoulders. “Roman, look at me.” He looked up slowly, meeting Virgil’s gaze, the brown in his eyes sparkling with the reflection of unshed tears. “You telling us about this won’t transfer all the pain to us, it’ll make it better for you. You won’t hurt us, Roman - you’re hurting yourself now, but you won’t hurt us if you talk about it. Please,  _ please _ , talk about it; you don’t have to tell Lo and Pat right now, or tomorrow, or the next week or month, but talk to  _ me _ , at least, keep talking to me for as long as you need, just don’t do this to yourself.” His grip on Roman’s shoulders tightened. “ _ Please _ , Roman.” 

  The room went silent again as Roman’s eyes grazed the words on his forearms.

  “Okay,” he said, his lip trembling before he bit down on it. “Okay. I- I’ll talk to you.” He managed a smile, miniscule and shaky, but it was  _ there _ , and that was enough for Virgil. “I can do that.” 

  “Good.”

  And then he was wrapped in a pair of arms before he could fully comprehend it - Roman had slid out of his chair, onto the ground beside him, and his face was buried in the folds of Virgil’s hoodie. 

  “Thank you,” Roman whispered, his voice muffled by the fabric. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want-” He took a shaky breath, lifting his head to meet Virgil’s eyes; his face was streaked with tears, and his eyes were rimmed in red, but he smiled. “Thank you, Virgil.” 

  Virgil searched his eyes for a moment before nodding, pulling the creative side back into his arms.

  “Anytime, Princey.”


End file.
